


Never Really Alone, or, The Unsolicited and Unsanctioned Sequel to “Alone On the Water”

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aborted Suicide, Afterlife, Angst, Apologies to Mad Lori, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost Sherlock, Happy ending!!!, Heaven, Humor, M/M, and sorta funny, by Sherlock, detective John, in the best way, it's sorta angsty and sorta crack, just for fun, major character deaths (sorta), no smut sorry, running out of ways to describe this, spiritual stuff, theories on how the universe works, totally unsolicited sequel, twice, whatever, yeah they're in love, you know he wouldn't let John do that!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: In the story, "Alone on the Water" (warning, read with tissues), Sherlock passes into the great beyond lovingly ensconced in John's arms.  John went on to become a great detective, but what of Sherlock? We know John would talk about cases with him, but was he REALLY talking to him? Some might wonder, but wonder no longer. Sherlock, being Sherlock, doesn't do ANYTHING he doesn't want to do...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mad apologies to Mad_Lori, but I had to do it. We all know Sherlock wouldn't go without a fight...

The last thing I remembered was feeling warm, drowsy, and very loved by the man who held me in his arms. I tried— _God_ , I tried---to keep my eyes open until the very end, to hold the image of my dearest and only friend in the world, as he held me. Tears trailed down his broad face from those bluer-than-blue eyes as he gazed down at me. I tried to speak, to tell him it was all right, but it was no use. For not the first time, my words failed me.

 

I was dying, by my own hand.

 

It was the only way I would have tolerated such a passage, under the circumstances. I had rejected the notion of dying slowly, in constant, unremitting pain, unable to use my much-treasured mental faculties because of the befuddlement brought on by pain medications and the pain they battled. To wait until the end, when my dear friend would have to take care of me or, worse, assign me to hospice for care as the tumor usurped my brain functions and relegated me to the vegetable patch—no, I could _not_ tolerate that. I would die in my own way, with the clandestine assistance of my physician and the support of my family and friends.

 

My eyelids slid inexorably downward. It was impossible to stop them; the morphine had seen to that. My last glimpse of blue eyes and I felt ready to face the unknown. I whispered _Goodbye, John_ in my head as I slipped away into velvety darkness…

 

There was an almost audible > _snap_ < and I was standing in the parlor, beside the couch, looking around in wonder. The room was the same; it was _me_ that was different. My God, there was no more pain! I could _think_ again without that nagging pressure behind my eyes, the dragging pain from the tumor pulling on the meninges as my brain swelled within the unyielding confines of my cranium! It’s as if I was experiencing the world in a whole new way, not just as I had pre-tumor. It was _miraculous_.

 

I looked down. Before me, on the couch, lay my inert body, now a mere untenanted shell, lying in silence forever. John still sat there, cradling it to his chest, sobbing unconsolably. His sorrow was palpable; I tried to pat his shoulder, to comfort him, but my hand passed _through_ him, immaterial as I was. I jerked back in surprise, having realized that the ‘self’ that I was currently experiencing was my physical body _without_ the physicality. In other words, my hand looked just like my hand, and I was dressed in one of my usual suits rather than in a dressing gown, as my body currently was. Obviously, this was my concept of myself and was being projected as such. I foolishly turned to look in the mirror and saw nothing. _Vampire_? I snickered at myself, _No_ , _I’m a_ _ **ghost**_ _, not a vampire_. Then, upon second thought, _Oh, shit, now I owe Lestrade a fiver…_

 

Lestrade had once wagered me, at a murder scene, that, in his opinion, there was an afterlife and that the murder victim was probably standing right beside up yelling the perpetrator’s name into our deaf ears. I scoffed at him and he wagered me a fiver that he was right. I accepted and asked to which dimension should I send his winnings. He laughed and said, “You’ll see” and that was it. It had seemed like nothing at the time but, at this very moment, it had made _far_ too great an impact on my discorporeal consciousness than I would have liked.

 

What now? Do I just stand here like an idiot, watching my best friend mourn my all-too-recent death? Haunt 221B like a poltergeist in some of the horrendously bad horror movies that John doted on? How _boring_ ! It would _kill_ me to be unable to go to crime scenes and use my intellect to solve them. Better a trip to Hell than that. At least, in Hell I could have some very interesting conversations with Satan. John had often said that I played Devil’s Advocate a bit _too_ well...

 

Where the parlor met the kitchen at a set of sliding doors, there was a sudden flash that arrested my attention _completely_. It was a large oval of...well, _white_ _light_ , that hovered, unsupported, in the air. There was something _compelling_ about it, as if thousands of voices were calling me to enter. Instead, I shrank back. Even though it was obviously _not_ the Highway to Hell, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sit on a cloud playing a harp for the rest of eternity, either. _Dull_.

 

_Sherlock_ . _Come inside…it’s time..._

 

I shook my head and shouted “NO!” If John had known I was there, he would have shaken his head, smiled, and said, “That’s Sherlock. Always resisting the inevitable.”

 

I turned to look for an exit when _something_ , present but invisible, grabbed me by the waist and unceremoniously yanked me through the doorway. I had always said that I would go out kicking and screaming and, sure enough, I did. It felt like I had just been slingshotted down a long corridor of light, completely unable to check my movement in any way. It was a _purposeful_ transition, though, not like a fall from a height; more like a mode of transportation from one place to another. It wasn’t scary at all. It was, actually,… _exhilarating_.

 

I wish I had had more time to observe the transition but, in practically no time, I found myself standing on an expanse of the greenest green I had ever beheld. It didn’t even seem to be a color I could _name_ . _Of course; my human eyes were limited to certain wavelengths of light. This is what_ _**pure** _ _color is._ I drank it all in, including the flowers that rimmed the gate a small distance away. I don’t know what I had expected; according to religions, the Gates of Heaven are supposed to be huge and bright gold and imposing, but this was almost like the gate into someone’s well-kept yard. It was an archway with filigree that looked like burnished, timeworn gold, surrounded by a low wall made of crystaline stonework. It was beautiful, but very underwhelming.

 

As I stood there, soaking in the rich sunlight and calming breezes, a young man approached me from, well, out of nowhere. I didn’t see him walk up, but I certainly recognized him when he arrived. At least, I recognized what he was _wearing_. The man himself was far younger in appearance than I had remembered.

 

I nodded my head. “Hello, Uncle Rudy,” I said, barely suppressing a smile.

 

He nodded back with a genuine smile. “Hello, Sherlock. Long time, no see.”

 

Holding back a giggle, I added, “You look elegant as ever.”

 

He held out his arms and showed off the dark blue evening gown with the draped sleeves, plunging V neck, and scads of crystals adorning the bodice. “Lovely, isn’t it? I appropriated it after your mother could no longer wear it.” He leaned in and confided, “Personally, I think I look better in it than she _ever_ did.” He stood back, hands clasped in front of him, and stated, simply, “No one judges here. If I wanted to wear a Ziegfield Follies costume around, I could and no one would say a word. It’s _paradise_ !” He waved a hand nonchalantly. “I only wore this so you would recognize me. Here, I prefer _not_ to look like the old man you remember.” He snapped his fingers and his garb changed to something more like my own.

 

I lowered my head and smiled. “Point taken. Here isn’t _like_ there. Not even _remotely_.”

 

“Indeed. Tell me, how is the family? I have so little time to visit, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

 

I must have screwed up my face questioningly as he continued, “Oh, dear boy, there is no _time_ here. Time, you see, is a construct of the third dimension, where the physical manifestation of Earth resides. After all, if _time_ didn’t exist in a physical universe, everything would try to happen at the same time, and the resultant chaos would be catastrophic. Linear time keeps things happening in an orderly fashion.” He explained all of this as if it was the simplest thing on the planet.

 

“So, why haven’t you visited?” I asked.

 

He shrugged. “Once you pass that gate, Sherlock, your past life means less and less to you as you begin to understand the vastness of this universe, which is made up of _layers_ of dimensions. It’s just so _huge_ , there’s just so _much_ going on at the same time that it’s hard to get away!”

 

I blinked, digesting this new information. “So, you stop caring for the people you left behind, in other words,” I said, feeling a certain degree of anger that he could leave all of us behind with so little concern. That, and the fact that he looked somewhat like a young, fit Mycroft, set me off a bit.

 

Uncle Rudy looked alarmed and held up his hands in negation. “No, no, not at all! We remember the people from _all_ our lifetimes, but the _physical_ aspects, everything associated with having a corporeal body, _that_ fades away over time.” He cocked his head at me in that familiar way and continued, “We watch over our families and friends in different ways. Rather than inserting ourselves into their lives directly, we work ‘behind the scenes’, as it were. We help things to move in certain directions, help those still in corporeal bodies to fulfill their spiritual contracts so that they can grow as souls...”

 

_That_ was a bridge too far. “Don’t tell me I signed a contract for _this_ life,” I scoffed, folding my arms over my chest. “That’s ridiculous.”

 

Rudy smiled benignly. “Of course _you_ would say that, Sherlock. Even _here_ , people just smile and say, ‘that’s Sherlock, he’s always been that way.’ You’re quite the legend here.”

 

I must have stiffened in outrage because Uncle Rudy stated, “In a good way, lad. We’re all rather proud of you here. You’ve made _tremendous_ strides this time. You actually fell in love!”

 

If I had had a physical face, it would have gone hot in embarrassment. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My uncle, the cross-dresser, was telling _me_ that he was proud that _I_ had fallen in love. Did he know…?

 

“Of course I know, Sherlock! We know _everything_ here! Just ask a question and the answer is provided!” He grinned, waving a hand at me. “Go on, do it!”

 

I wondered, _Is there a God?_

 

A kind but powerful voice filled my head and said, with a touch of humor, _**Really, Sherlock, you’re getting on my last nerve with this constant skepticism of yours.** _

 

I guess the look on my face must have been pretty comical, because Uncle Rudy practically fell to the ground laughing. “God said they’d say that the next time you asked! I didn’t believe them!” It took him a good minute to get himself together again. “Ask something _else_ , Sherlock. Maybe something a little more... _personal_.”

 

The obvious question leapt to mind without conscious thought. _Does John Watson love me as I love h…_

 

_**Yes**_ came the answer, unbidden, into my head. I gasped, reeling as if at an impact. _Yes. John loves me, my John…_ _ **loves**_ _me._

 

“Did you ever actually _doubt_ it, Sherlock?” Uncle Rudy asked, laughter bubbling through his words. “ _We_ didn’t.”

 

_John loves me, John loves me, John..._ _**loved** _ _..._ _me…_

 

All the air left my “lungs” at once and I said, bluntly and without feeling, “I’m dead.”

 

Uncle Rudy nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I’m afraid you are, nephew. I’m sorry you had to find out so late...”

 

My head snapped up. I _knew_ what I had to do.

 

“I’m going back,” I pronounced, with great determination.

 

Uncle Rudy sighed in frustration. “Somehow, I _knew_ you were going to do this. I even made a wager on it with a friend of mine.” He shook his head before raising it to peer into my eyes. “You can always go back, Sherlock, once you’ve crossed...”

 

“I’ll lose my desire to do so, you said so yourself,” I challenged him. He reluctantly nodded. “Tell me, what will happen to John if I cross over?”

 

A full-blown technicolor image with stereophonic sound blasted through my brain. In it, John Watson, looking worn and haggard, was inserting bullets into the clip of his gun with shaky fingers.

 

_That’s not right, John’s hands are always rock steady in a crisis…_

 

There was a mostly-finished bottle of whiskey next to him and a shattered short tumbler in the fireplace. Jamming the clip into place, he held it up to his head and whispered, “I’m coming, Sherlock...”

 

There was a loud explosion and a splatter of red. I jerked back into the here-and-now, shaking like a leaf. “NO! John...I _can’t_ ... _not because of me_ !” I didn’t panic, no longer having the physical mechanism to do so , but a sense of complete and utter urgency overtook me. I grabbed my uncle by his shoulders and pleaded with him. “Uncle Rudy, I _have_ to go back! How do I do it?”

 

He looked dead into my eyes and said, calmly, “Sherlock, that is only _one_ possibility…. “

 

“How certain?” I asked.

 

His eyes lowered and his mouth flatlined.

 

“HOW. CERTAIN?” I repeated.

 

He sighed. “The most likely scenario, but, nephew, it’s _not_ for certain. There _is_ no certainty, only percentages to be nudged one way or another...”

 

“I don’t _care_ ,” I hissed in anger. “How do I return?”

 

“You have to _decide_ to return, _decide_ that you have something left to do. Here, thought is action. _There_...it’s not going to be so easy, Sherlock. They can’t see us or hear us. We can’t interact with them like we used to. They can only detect us by the most _primitive_ means. You will see and hear _him_ because he is a lower-vibrational being, like he can see plants and rocks, but he won’t detect _you_.”

 

“Can I effect physical change in this state?” I probed, wondering at the sudden sense of misgiving that had overtaken me. “Can I _help_ him?”

 

Uncle Rudy blinked in thought. “You might. I don’t know. I’ve never done it myself, but _others_ have. It depends on if you have the will...”

 

_The will._ I smiled down at him. _If there’s one thing I’ve got in spades, it’s will._

 

“ _And_ if the Big Cheddar allows you to _,”_ he finished _._ I grinned at the description. _That_ was pure Uncle Rudy.

 

I thanked him and turned to leave when a sudden thought occurred to me. Something John and I had discussed not so very long ago, while discussing life and death. I asked, over my shoulder, “Uncle Rudy, is there a Hell? A Devil who counters God?”

 

He grinned. “Nope. No Hell, no Satan, just a lot of bad press by the preachers to keep people in line. It’s all about control of the people, lad.”

 

Moriarty came immediately to mind. I asked, “So where do the criminals and wrongdoers go when they die?”

 

Spreading his hands, he said, “They come right back _here_ , of course! I mean, what kind of loving deity would want their children to be punished for all eternity for their mistakes? They get reborn to Earth, to live and learn, just like the rest of us.” He winked at me. “We _all_ get infinite do-overs, Sherlock. You’d be _amazed_ at how many _you’ve_ had! Take care!”

 

He waved to me as I felt myself gently drawn back into the tunnel of light and deposited into the parlor at 221B Baker Street with a headful of questions. It was dark. The curtains were drawn, cutting off the light from the street lamps outside. There was absolutely no sound inside. Even the street was unoccupied. It was eerie and far too quiet.

 

I walked upstairs to John’s room and extended my hand to grasp the knob. Instead, it went _through_ _the_ _door_. Cursing myself for an idiot, I took a deep ‘breath’ and plowed through the heavy wooden door. It was like walking through a spider web, without the stickiness. _Different plane of existence. Different level of vibration. Energetically, I don’t exist here._ _I’m just walking through densely-packed molecules._

 

I looked around the room and noticed the obvious disarray. Not that it was ever unkempt; John would _never_ allow that, military man that he was. However, _this_ room had been thoroughly trashed by a mindless rage. Sheets were pulled off the bed, clothing half-pulled from drawers, everything scattered everywhere it had no reason to be. John’s anger and frustration had boiled over at some point and taken control of his rational mind.

 

I started to exit through the door but thought better of it. Taking another figurative breath, I dropped through the floor, experiencing the same mildly-staticky sensation as with the door. I grinned. This could actually be _fun_ , under the right circumstances. Imagine what I could do it to Lestrade some time…!

 

There was a muted sound coming from the back bedroom. I turned my head and listened before moving in that direction. At the door, I stopped, reluctant to enter as I considered what I might find there. Would John already dying? Would he be there with a lover, trying to forget me any way possible? I set my jaw and moved through the door. My eyes sought the bed immediately.

 

There lay John, _my_ John, curled up into a fetal position, enshrouded in my comforter. He was making little noises, almost like a crying puppy. His face was still damp with tears, his complexion mottled from crying. My entire being felt like it was being squeezed under pressure . I reached down to touch his shoulder but, as expected, my hand went right through him. I pulled back and watched, wishing to God I could do _something_ to make a difference for him.

 

Just watching him sleep, knowing he would awaken at some point to a new wave of anguish, filled me with an anger I hadn’t felt on the “other side”. Lower vibrations, Uncle Rudy had said. Negative emotions must be lower vibration and, therefore, incompatable with the spiritual realm but perfectly at home on Earth. While here, I would be subject to the restrictions of this dimension, including negative emotions.

 

_Well, that’s good._ _At least one-half of my personality won’t_ _disappear down the crapper_ _here._

 

I exited the bedroom and stalked into the kitchen. Everything was either dirty, broken, or discarded. John’s temper was on display again, along with an uncharacteristic apathy. John _enjoyed_ living; _I_ was the one who was always trying to kill himself with drugs and ill-considered actions.

 

_This is my fault._ _He’s in this condition because of me._ _Should I just have held off, died a slow, lingering, painful death so that John could have time to adjust?_ _Had I been selfish?_

 

I became so angry with myself that I took a thoughtless, though completely intentional, swing at a cup poised precipitously on the edge of a table. I fully expected to move right through it, simply using it as the target of my anger.

 

Instead, it flew across the room and smashed into the opposite wall.

 

I was agape until I realized what had happened. _Willpower_ . Directed energy can effect a change in the environment, and I had directed all my anger at that glass. I looked down at my hand in wonder and a slow grin came over my face. _This could work…_

 

The bedroom door slammed open and John charged out of it, gun in hand. He stared about wildly as he turned on the kitchen light, pointing his gun at me at one point unintentionally. Not that it mattered; the bullet would have passed right through, but it _was_ still a bit nerve-wracking to see John, in that state, with a gun pointed at my midsection.

 

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. With his other hand he rubbed his eyes as he walked into the kitchen, not thinking to look…

 

“John, look out! That’s glass!” I yelled, uselessly, as my best friend trod upon the remnants of the recent target of my anger. He yelped in pain and, surprise, hopped backward onto his uninjured foot as he pronated his bloody foot to see what had happened. Then, he looked down uncomprehendingly at the shattered glass where it lay on the linoleum, speckled with his blood. He looked around in confusion, then hobbled into the bathroom to treat his wounds. Fortunately, they weren’t deep or severe, just a few splinters of glass to be removed. He washed and bandaged his wounds and retreated to the bedroom to put on a pair of slippers for better protection against the rest of the pieces.

 

Clomping out of the bedroom,  gun still  held loosely  in hand, he leaned down to inspect his recent attacker, shaking his head in wonder. 

 

“Wasn’t there last night,” he muttered to himself. “ _Sure_ I put it on the table...” He wandered over to the table, touching the ring that marked where the glass had stood earlier.  Laying the gun safely down, he marked the trajectory with his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “Great, now I’ve got ghosts. If only one of them was Sherlock...” he sighed before snuffling into his sleeve. “I’d give anything to...to...” 

 

The dam broke. John sat down at the table where we had shared so many meals and discussed so many cases and bawled his heart out. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I never told you how I felt about you when you were alive! I couldn’t bear losing you, chasing you away...”

 

Again, I felt that squeezing sensation. If I’d had a heart anymore, I would have said that it felt like it was being juiced, but  _this_ was a whole-body sensation. Sorrow was squeezing the  _life_ out of me, diminishing me as surely as it was John. 

 

Then, I had an inspiration.  _Diversion_ . Keep John diverted so he wouldn’t feel the sorrow so badly. Then, maybe, I could help him through this crisis. 

 

Gathering all the anger I could, I pounded on the table with both fists. There was an audible  _thump_ and John looked up, frozen in surprise. The tears ceased to trickle down his face as his jaw dropped.

 

“I’m losing my mind,” he said, to no one in particular. “I’m fucking losing my mind! What, did I drink tainted whisky? Eat something moldy? What the hell...?”

 

“It’s _me_ , John! Sherlock! I’m _here_!” I yelled, with all the volume I could muster, but he couldn’t hear me. At least, I didn’t _think_ he could; however, his brow had furrowed and his eyes had slid in my direction...

 

Shaking from the shock and the booze, John stood up, supporting himself between the chair and the table, and spoke into the air, “Sherlock? Is that you?  _Could_ it be you? Have you come back for me?”

 

His dull blue eyes took on new life as he spoke and his shaking stopped. Without waiting for an answer he knew he would never get,  he grabbed at his gun, sitting silently before him and stood up, the look his eyes disturbingly intense . I had seen, and used,  that gun enough times  in the past  to know that it had been kept cleaned and oiled and was already full of bullets. John would have seen to that. I know my John. He had been waiting for however long it had been since I died, waiting until he had a sudden spurt of inspiration, of energy, to do that which he was now ready and able to do.  That was probably why it had been in the bedroom with him. Waiting...

 

Stumbling over to his  overstuffed  chair, he sat down roughly in it, nearly falling in the process. Picking up the gun, he looked it over, released the safety, and contemplated how he was going to do it. Into the mouth? He shook his head, No. He finally settled on placing the muzzle against his skull, just above the ear. His finger tightened on the trigger as he said, “I’m coming, Sherlock...”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tired of mourning for his dead flatmate, John is about to end his life. Is there anything that Sherlock can do to prevent it?

“NO, YOU’RE NOT, YOU STUPID BASTARD!” I yelled as I slapped the gun away from his head with my hand. The gun went off, burying a bullet in the brick of the fireplace. 

 

John’s jaw dropped. He looked at the gun, then at the fireplace, then turned around and stared at where I w as standing,  as if he could actually see me. I stared down at him, ready to do it again, if needs be. He blinked in  blank surprise . I’m not sure if he actually  _believed_ what he had said before, but, if he hadn’t then, he sure did  _now_ .

 

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. “It’s _you_ , isn’t it? You’re _here_.” He reached out an arm and waved it. It passed right through me without impediment. He retracted it. 

 

“I’m losing it,” he whispered, his eyes dulling again. “He’s gone and I can’t handle it.” He raised the gun again…

 

This time I hit it so hard it flew into the hearth.

 

“Don’t make me do that again, John,” I pleaded. “It _really_ wipes me out.” 

 

Thankfully, it was at this point that John passed out in his chair. I took up my usual place in  _my_ chair, steepled my fingers, and considered what the hell I was going to do when he woke up.

 

I needn’t have worried. 

 

When John woke up, his rational mind kicked in again. Hung over as he may have been, he began using my techniques as surely as if I had been standing there directing him. _Eliminate the impossible._ _Whatever remains must be the truth._ He performed experiments, measured trajectories, all the while talking to the air as if someone was there taking notes. This took the better part of a day. After that, he asked Molly to do some chemical analyses of whatever food or drink he had partaken  of the day before, all of which were found to be clear of toxins or hallucinogens. 

 

Then, he called Mycroft.

 

If John could have heard my eyes rolling, he would have laughed. 

 

Mycroft. Most useless of the useless in this sort of thing. Mr. Rational. The farthest thing from a Ghostbuster anyone would  _ever_ want to meet.

 

To my amazement, he arrived within the hour. 

 

“John,” he nodded as he was shown in by Mrs. Hudson. She turned to leave when John said, “Mrs. Hudson, I think you might want to stay. This...may concern you, as well.”

 

Her eyebrows raised a notch, but she said nothing. She sat down primly on the couch as Mycroft stood, awkwardly, half-leaning on his ever-present umbrella. He cleared his throat.

 

“John, as you know, you and I have not always gotten along particularly well in the past, but this last call...are you...well? Have you been, you know...?” he mimed taking drink, eyeing John as if he expected some sort of bizarre outburst.

 

John’s lips flatlined before he answered. “Mycroft, have I  _ever_ called you for any but the most significant of reasons?”

 

Mycroft actually looked like he was chewing on his lower lip before he answered. “No.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson? Have I ever seemed erratic or nonsensical to you in all our years of interaction?”

 

She simply shook her head, “no”.

 

John readjusted his stance. “Well, then, you may  _both_ question my sanity when I tell you that I am currently being haunted...by one Sherlock Holmes, expired.”

 

No one moved. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and John all exchanged looks. Confused, annoyed, uncertain, questioning...they ran the gamut. Strangely, however, there was no disbelief.

 

Her hands fidgeting in her lap, eyes down, Mrs. Hudson piped up, her voice just a bit quavery. “John, I didn’t tell you this before, but, the other day, I was baking cookies to take my mind off of, well, you know, and I walked away to do something else that took longer than I expected it to. That’s when I heard the electric timer go off.” She looked up with her large, pale eyes and said, “John, I hadn’t set the timer! It’s too complex for me, those stupid little electronic things! I was going to get a new one that was a simpler wind-up one the next day...” She stood abruptly. “I thought I was going  _crazy_ , imagining things! Lights shutting off by themselves! The telly changing channels to documentaries instead of my usual programs! The kind of things that  _Sherlock_ ...” She stopped herself, then lowered her voice, “that Sherlock would have done in his day.”

 

John nodded but Mycroft still didn’t look convinced. “It could be  _anything_ , Mrs. Hudson. And, as for you, John...” he started, just before John cut him off.

 

“I tried to kill myself the other day,” John declared, his voice flat. Mrs Hudson gasped and Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I was drinking and I’d had enough. Enough of pain and mourning and missing my best friend. While I was in the bedroom, a glass flew off the kitchen table and shattered on the floor. Then something pounded on the table.” He leaned forward. “There was no one there,” he said, enunciating each word in emphasis. As he leaned back, he continued, “I got my gun and decided to end it. Figured I’d finally lost the plot.”

 

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson whimpered, her hand covering her mouth as she sat back down again. Mycroft didn’t move but his eyes were intense.

 

“I put it to my head and pulled the trigger.” He turned, walked over to the fireplace, and pointed. “There’s the bullet I fired. _Something_ slapped the gun away from my head.” He came back and picked up his gun, still covered in soot. “The second time I tried, it was struck _completely_ out of my hand and into the fireplace. You can still see the ashes from our last fire on it.” He presented the gun for examination.

 

Leaning in, Mycroft visually examined the gun, too meticulous to actually touch it. I just shook my head in disbelief.  _Always the priss. Never did the dirty work himself._ For some reason, this annoyed me more than usual at that moment and I reached out and smacked Mycroft in the back of the head with my hand. Mycroft jerked upright.

 

“ _Who hit me?”_ he demanded, raising one hand to touch the back of his perfectly-groomed head. He looked around. No one had moved. John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged “I knew it” looks.

 

“I think we need to call in someone,” Mrs Hudson suggested. “You know, one of those ghost-hunting groups...”

 

“Oh, God, no,” I moaned, involuntarily. “Just what we need...more amateurs.”

 

Everyone’s eyes widened in shock as my low, barely-audible voice materialized out of the air. I slapped my hand over my mouth. _Oops_.  Hadn’t meant to do that. I’d sounded like an old-fashioned moaning, chain dragging haunt...

 

John whispered, “I’ll be  _damned_ if that didn’t sound like...”

 

“Sherlock,” they all said in unison. 

 

“That _was_ his vocal range,” Mycroft admitted. He humphed. “Well, I suppose if there is _anyone_ too stubborn to leave, it’s Sherlock.” 

 

I seriously considered kicking him in the arse for that comment alone, but decided I was too tired to attempt it. Interacting with this world as a spirit was  _exhausting_ . I’ve never missed my former transport more than I did  then .

 

“ _I_ will take care of this,” Mycroft stated, pompous as always. “I know a group that has a high reliability factor in these matters. They are serious professionals, not those charlatans you see on the telly.” He tapped his umbrella on the floor before walking purposely out the door, but not before casting one last glance back into the parlor suspiciously, as if he expected something untoward to happen.

 

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a glance as,  a minute later, they heard him uncharacteristically trip on a lower step, cursing  yours truly as he exited the building.

 

John raised his eyebrows at Mrs. Hudson and quipped, “Well, I guess  we should get ready for company.”

 

Mrs. Hudson nodded mutely in agreement.

 

>>>***<<<

 

A day later, a group of heavily-laden people showed up at Mrs. Hudson’s door. She let them in wordlessly and escorted them upstairs to the parlor. She  then  disappeared while they made John’s acquaintance, reappearing a few minutes later with tea and biscuits for all. As they set up their equipment s , John stood to one side and watched. I stood beside him, eyeing the treats I could no longer partake of. I could, however,  _smell_ them. They were delightful.

 

“This is totally unnecessary, John,” I complained. “I made my presence to you _perfectly_ clear. Why did you have to go and include Mycroft in this? Mrs. Hudson wasn’t going to say anything, after all. I just hated to see her cookies burn, that’s all. And those shows she watches! Especially the ones with the...”

 

A man carrying a high-tech meter walked right through me, singing out, “Hot spot over here! Burying the needle!” Two other people ran over to ooh and aah about it. 

 

I sniffed in disgust. “Really, it’s  _quite_ rude to shove a piece of equipment into my  ectoplasmic space like that! It would serve you right if I ran all over the flat and had you chase me!” I stepped aside and the meter went dead.

 

“It’s gone!” the man stated. He looked at John and asked, “Did you feel anything?”

 

John shook his head. “Not right then, no.”

 

I passed my hand over the meter. It maxed out again, then dropped. 

 

“Something is _definitely_ here, and I think it’s conscious!” the man said, excitedly.

 

“More conscious than _you_ , obviously,” I sniped. 

 

“Does this phenomenon occur regularly, or is it sporatic?” the man, wearing a tee shirt with the logo of a large dog head with the words “Ghost Hounds” underneath it, asked John. 

 

John shrugged. “Not regular, no. Just started a couple of days ago.”

 

Squinting through his glasses, the man peered closely at John. “Has anyone died here lately?” he asked, very matter-of-factly. “ Is there a history of death at this residence that you know of?”

 

The words almost caught in John’s throat as he said, “Yes. My friend and flatmate did. He died of brain cancer here, on that couch.” He pointed. His hand didn’t shake.

 

The man nodded and scurried over to the couch. He and a woman on the team  began examining it with the meter and a full-spectrum camera. Another member of the team was  busy  setting up a laser grid  projecting  into the kitchen to try to catch any unusual movement there. Still another was setting up a device to communicate  with spirits  in real time. It was all quite high-tech and complicated and dear, sensible John just kept out of the way. 

 

Once the man with the meter had walked away, I had re-assumed my place by John’s side, hands behind my back, watching. I snickered to myself at the industriousness of the researchers as I pondered how I could best mess with their devices. I absolutely  _hated_ this feeling that I was being stalked like some sort of curiosity. Usually,  _I_ was the one doing the stalking...

 

The head of the group, a man named Adam, came over to John to explain their procedures and what each of the devices did. John nodded and smiled  nonchalantly , saying nothing. I, for one, wasn’t at  _all_ sure that John even  _believed_ in ghosts or spirits  in general . I figured that he was just clinging to the hope that I was, indeed, still present. As if I hadn’t given him  _more_ than enough proof of that!

 

Once everything had been set up, John retired to his old bedroom upstairs for a rest and to allow the researchers to attend to their work  unimpeded . They all took their places around the room and waited.

 

I grinned and rubbed my hands together. It’s _showtime_!

 

I walked around in the kitchen, changing direction, first on my feet, then on my knees, just to get their attention. They were spellbound as they recorded my movements by the way my energy disrupted their dot matrix  field . There were urgent whispers back and forth. At one point, I slammed on the table with both hands, just to watch them jump in unison. 

 

It was actually kind of fun, to be honest, watching them lose their collective professional demeanor. I was considering what to do next when one of them said, “Try the 3-D Kinekt! Maybe we can get a figure!”

 

I almost danced for joy. 

 

Once the light grid was gone, they focused a new device into the kitchen. I peered over their shoulders and observed a s they set it up. It was a camera attached to a laptop which seemed to render any movement or energy into a stick figure in real time. I found it fascinating. It also gave me ideas.

 

Once they were ready, I “materialized” sitting casually on the kitchen table before hopping off and delivering several rude gestures before running around the table twice and “blinking out”, as they called it.

 

The furor that erupted must have alerted John in the spare bedroom, since he thundered down the stairs in haste, still fully dressed. He stopped at the parlor door, panting. “What is it? What’s happened?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

 

Adam pulled John into the parlor by an arm. “It’s incredible, Dr. Watson! We’ve never gotten such an amazing response before! Look!”

 

John leaned down and peered closely at a laptop,  which  replayed the previous video of my supernatural antics in the kitchen. Adam explained the process to John as they watched.

 

“Look, did you see that? It waved at us!” one of the women cried out in joy.

 

John snorted barely-suppressed laughter into his hand. Everyone turned to look at him strangely as Adam asked, “Do you have another interpretation, Doctor?”

 

John, still trying to control himself, stated, “If that’s  _really_ Sherlock, it’s far more likely he just gave you the finger right there!” He then pointed again and chortled, “And  _there_ he just thumbed his nose at you! And  _that_ one...” He finally just surrendered himself to the laughter.

 

Eyes widened all around. John then suggested, “If you want to see him again, you might want to keep an eye on that chair over there, the black one. That’s his favorite.”

 

The sensors were directed at the chair and they waited. And waited. And waited some more. Nothing. Everyone finally just turned to John with quizzical eyes.

 

John shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s just being a dick,” he said. “Nothing unusual in that...”

 

I uttered one word through t he ghost box speaker. “Idiot.”

 

Everyone froze. John grinned and pointed at the speaker.  _“That’s my Sherlock!”_ he crowed.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Mycroft declined to sit down when he arrived. “So, I hear my brother is up to his old tricks again, hmmm?”

 

_My God, Mycroft, can you be_ _**any** _ _more annoying..._

 

John grinned. “Absolutely. He came through like a champ. Or a chump, either way,” he added, mischievously. 

 

I tapped the Persian slipper until it fell off the mantlepiece. Mycroft’s eyes slid rapidly in our direction.

 

“No one’s going to know about this, right?” John asked, seeking reassurance. “I won’t have people showing up at the door looking for my supernatural flatmate, right?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft stated, waving his hand in negation. “This is of the utmost secrecy. The group had to sign an ironclad document to that purpose.” His face softened just a bit. “It’s just...good to know that Sherlock is still here, if only in spirit.”

 

I pantomimed sticking my finger down my throat and gagging at the sentiment. Still...

 

“So, what will you be doing now, Doctor?” Mycroft asked, with an unusual curiosity. “Will you continue with your practice?”

 

“I would think so,” I opined, to no one in particular. It was annoying sometimes to be invisible and inaudible.

 

“I don’t know,” John admitted, to my surprise. “I don’t have the same reputation Sherlock did and, therefore, can’t make enough to support the flat on my own, and my medical practice is barely hanging on due to my frequent absences. No, I don’t know...”

 

“Doctor,” Mycroft said, surprisingly gently, “John. I will support this flat with rent so that you can continue with your work, if you wish. It is what my brother would have wanted.” 

 

I was shocked. Mycroft + sentiment = WTF?

 

I was surprised to see a bit of dampness around Mycroft’s eyes as John nodded and said, “I accept your offer, Mycroft. Thank you.”

 

“Well, well, well, the Ice Man actually _does_ have a heart,” I muttered to myself.

 

“I’ll have to talk to Lestrade about this,”John added, dubiously. “I will need to be _paid_ for my work. Sherlock may not have been practical about money, but I _am_.”

 

“Dull,” I interjected.

 

“ _If_ I can do it at all. Sherlock left some pretty big shoes to fill,” he finished.

 

“I’m only a size 13, Tinkerbell.”

 

“Considering how you sussed out his presence, I would say that you will do fine. In fact,” Mycroft actually winked at John, “I suspect that, given the opportunity, Sherlock may be of _immense_ assistance to you in such matters.”

 

I watched as John actually brightened up at that suggestion,  and I added, “Well, of course I will! What, did you think I came back for tea and scones?”

 

>>>***<<<

 

Lestrade was overjoyed with the news that John was going to continue solving cases with Scotland Yard, just as we had prior to my untimely demise. He was even more overjoyed to find that John’s entire mien had changed, from a near-suicidal mourner to a bright-eyed, brimming-with-enthusiasm man about to take on a new venture, alone. He congratulated John on his decision with a slap on the back.

 

John nodded, his smile tightening a bit. “Uh, Greg, I _will_ have to charge you for the service, however. Unlike Sherlock, I _am_ concerned about paying the bills, and it _will_ take time away from my practice...”

 

I sighed. “Good Lord, not _that_ again.”

 

Lestrade patted him on the back again and replied, “Of course, John. Not a problem. I’m sure I can fly this by the Commissioner. He always enjoyed having Sherlock solve a case, as long as the department could take the credit!” He stopped, suddenly, then, in a lower voice, said, “I’m sorry, John. I know it’s only been a short time...”

 

Holding up a hand, John said, “Don’t worry about it, Greg. I know Sherlock would want me to continue The Work, so I’m good.”

 

Lestrade smiled quietly and nodded before taking John into his office and handing him a folder. “Recent case. We suspect this woman killed her husband but we have no proof. Hopefully, you can figure it out. You know Sherlock’s methods, and I know he had complete and utter faith in you.”

 

John lowered his eyes in embarrassment and he half-smiled. “Nice of you to say that, Greg. _Sherlock_ never did.”

 

Standing close behind John, closer than I _ever_ could have before without suspicion, I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “ Liar,” I said. “You knew how much I valued you _.”_

 

Then, a second, melancholic thought; _But it probably wouldn’t have hurt to tell you more often, I suppose._

 

H indsight  is a pain in the arse .

 

An officer ran into Lestrade’s office breathlessly. “Inspector Lestrade, we’ve just had a suspicious hit-and-run called in! They’re asking for you!”

 

Lestrade grinned at John and jerked his head toward the door. “Up for this?”

 

“Do it, John,” I urged.

 

John grinned back. “Absolutely!”

 

The two ran off as I watched. “I _do_ miss the chase already, but these new travel arrangements can’t be beat,” I mused, wryly, as I transported myself through the ether. I would arrive long before they did, and that pleased me no end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces his first case without Sherlock's help. Or, does he? The Spectral Detective is on hand, just in case...

“About time you two showed up,” I huffed as Lestrade and John dismounted from the panda car and hustled toward the corpse. “I’ve already studied the scene and formulated a hypothesis before you had even left Scotland Yard!”

Lestrade raised the caution tape so John could duck under it as he approached the crime scene. Lestrade’s hand was on the small of John’s back, ushering him through. I must admit, I humphed in irritation, as if Lestrade had committed an indiscretion. “That’s my John, Graham. Do. Not. Touch.”

John knelt on the ground and, gingerly, examined the corpse. Donning gloves, he turned the battered body over to examine him. “Was anything touched, Greg?”

“No, sir,” a youngish officer chimed in. “Everything is just as it happened.”

“Lies,” I grumped. “The EMT’s examined him briefly and that officer over there,” I jerked his head toward an unkempt-looking officer standing at the periphery, “pilfered his pockets already. Shady lad, that one. Oh, and don’t miss the gunshot wound, John.”

John opened the man’s jacket and swore. “Why didn’t anyone mention the fact that this man has been shot?” he demanded as he pointed to the neat bullet hole in the middle-aged man’s chest, surrounded by crushed ribs and a shattered pelvis. 

Furiously, Lestrade turned to his men. “Who took the witness accounts?” he yelled.

Another detective, balding but well-turned out, walked over to his boss and said, “I’ve had the boys taking testimony from everyone in the area, but it’s going to take a while. Busy corner, this one. Turns out, there were two cars, one driven by a man and the other by a woman, both of which ran the victim over, one after the other. Didn’t even stop to check on him.”

“Did anyone hear a gunshot, either before or after the accident?” John piped up as he stood, stripping off his gloves as he rejoined Lestrade.

The detective looked sheepish. “No, sir, we didn’t know...”

That was it. I couldn’t stand this shit-show any longer. Had I been alive, I would have verbally reamed this lot a new one but, as things currently stood, there was only one thing I could do…

I jumped John. 

I didn’t mean to, I swear it. I was waiting for John to make the first move, but he seemed as clueless as the rest. I’m sure the ensuing scene was later likened to a remake of the Exorcist by some of the officers and technicians in attendance.

My (John’s) eyes narrowed angrily and from out of my (his) mouth poured a litany of criticism and abuse the like of which I had been incapable for many months due to my fatal illness.

“Idiots!” I shouted, John’s lighter voice suddenly sounding deeper and angrier and more like my former baritone than John’s tenor. “The EMT examined him and told you there was a suspicious wound on the chest but you waved him off! Did you even think to look for a bullet? A shooter? Of course not! That would require imagination and intellect, something in amazingly short supply in this herd of bleating sheep! Two cars! Did you get any descriptions? Any license plate numbers? Anything?” 

John’s face must have been red and his gaze intense, like my own under similar circumstances. “Do you know which car struck intentionally versus which one was the accident?” No one met my eyes except Lestrade, who stared as if he had, well, seen a ghost. “Are you all blind? Look at the skid marks! The first car was the accidental strike! The man was still alive when the second car veered sharply to hit him! That’s the murder! And when did the bullet hit?” 

Still more silence. 

“God help London with you lot investigating crimes! Look at the amount of blood on his shirt! Check out the angle! Look at the bloodstains on the pavement! The shot was from on high, and he was still alive when he staggered into traffic in front of the first car! Don’t you see it? Do I have to spoon-feed you the evidence before you go home and have your mummy wipe your face?”

I must admit, I was on quite a roll that time. I pointed to the unkempt officer and yelled, “And how do you expect anyone to solve a crime when that one, over there, has already rifled the victim’s pockets because of his gambling addiction, for which his wife has recently left him?”

Everyone’s already-shocked faces swung away from me and toward the officer, who looked stunned. “Me? I didn’t do nothing...”

“Anything, you useless cockwomble! The evidence is in his right trouser pocket, alongside his keys. And some fool has kicked the parcel the man was carrying to the kerb right over there. Didn’t even consider including it as evidence! Is this an investigation or a three-ring circus?” I yelled, John’s voice beginning to crack from the strain. 

There was dead silence as Lestrade stepped forward and took me/John by the shoulders, shaking me/him gently. “John! Good Lord, man, what…?”

I stepped aside and watched as John blinked a couple of times before looking up at the Inspector in confusion. “Greg? What happened?” He looked around and shivered, taking note of all the faces staring at him in near-horror. “I’m freezing!”

“’E’s possessed,” one of the beat officers whispered in awe.

“Never heard him talk like that before,” another agreed.

“You know who that sounded like, don’t you?” still a third officer agreed, sotto voce.

All three nodded, not daring to say the name.

“Sod off, you useless wankers” I growled at them. I felt surprisingly naked. Being inside a body again, even if it wasn’t my own, had been strangely comfortable. And warm.

Deeply concerned, Lestrade led John to a quiet area by one of the pandas and sent an officer for a cup of tea, black. He stared at John, noting that he appeared to be in shock. I felt terribly guilty. I hadn’t realized my intrusion would have caused this kind of distress to my dearest friend in all the world.

When the tea arrived, Lestrade placed it into John’s cupped hands and tilted it up to his mouth. The bitter taste seemed to bring him around somewhat. His eyes focused on Lestrade, finally, his face screwed up in confusion.

“Greg? Did I…? Was that me?”

After several false starts, Lestrade stammered, “Yes, John Well, no, actually...you… you sounded like...like Sherlock.”

“Jesus,” John murmured. He looked into Lestrade’s eyes as if pleading for him to believe what he was about to say. “Greg, he took me over!”

Lestrade’s eyes widened as he withdrew slightly from John. John was still shivering. I tried to put my arms around him but he just shivered harder. Of course! I’m cold! Unagitated energy has no heat! I backed away and he settled a bit when someone wrapped an orange blanket around his shoulders.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John continued, “Honest to God, Greg. I could...I could feel him, inside me, controlling my body, and all I could do was watch. He was stronger than I was, angry...” He clutched at Lestrade’s coat desperately, his knees becoming spongy.

“John,” Lestrade ventured as he held John up, “I think that, maybe, you should go home for a bit. Get some rest. It’s still so soon after...”

John nodded absently, his eyes still unfocused. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Send me the evidence once you get it, yeah?”

Lestrade nodded. “Sure, John. I’ll even escort you back myself.” 

“Thanks, Greg.”

Lestrade led John to a nearby panda car and directed the officer driving it to 221B Baker St.

>>>***<<<

By the time he had mounted the stairs to the flat, John was fuming. 

Lestrade followed him, watching carefully and with concern. “John, I know you haven’t been yourself, lately. Maybe you need to speak with someone…”

“SHERLOCK!” John bellowed as he entered the parlor. “Get your immaterial arse over here!”

“Not him, John, I mean, a professional...” Lestrade corrected himself, hastily

“No need to shout, John,” I replied, offended. “I’m right here, as always.”

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” John challenged. “You scared the shit out of everyone, me included!” He strode around the room, gesticulating angrily, pointing to empty air.

I looked away before answering. “I was helping you, John. I could not have foreseen that you would be so affected...”

“And you even accused a cop of stealing! My God, Sherlock…!” John continued, his ire attaining new heights.

Lestrade’s phone rang. “Lestrade here, what is it?” He shushed John with a wave of a hand, then yelled, “WHAT? Say that again!”

John paused in his tirade long enough for Lestrade to finish his call and pocket his phone. 

“What is it?” John asked, still somewhat red-faced in anger.

Lestrade looked stunned. “The officer you accused of stealing...they found evidence from the dead man’s pocket right where you said it would be! ID, credit cards, keys...the lot. He admitted he had a gambling problem and that his life was falling apart...”

John stared at him, bug-eyed.

The inspector continued. “And the package the victim, a courier, was carrying was filled with some secret papers and patents that would have been worth millions on the black market, yet they were just left lying there, removing the idea that this was an industrial espionage crime.”

“Anything else?” my friend asked, obviously fascinated by the latest turn of events. I just murmured, “Told you so.”

“Yeah, well, turns out the victim was also undergoing a nasty divorce, according to his sister, who was contacted at home. Turns out, his wife had been cheating on him with, of all things, an army sharpshooter. There’s a possibility that that this might have been an accidental double-tap by both of them on the husband,” Lestrade finished. He and John exchanged bewildered glances before he pointed at John. 

“You knew,” Lestrade whispered. “He knew.”

Graham had actually figured this out on his own. Amazing.

John nodded. “Good God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That glorious bastard.”

I knocked a book off a shelf full of books John had been intending to read but hadn’t gotten to yet. Lestrade walked over and picked it up. His hand shook ever-so-slightly as he read aloud the title-- “Idiot’s Delight.”

John barked out a laugh as Lestrade replaced the book on the shelf. He turned back to the still-chuckling man. “John, would you like to fill me in on this or shall I call the police psychologist?” he asked, his tone as unsure as I’d ever heard it.

“No need,” John said, his words still broken up by laughter. “Here, let me show you something.” 

He walked over to a device resting on the mantle, next to my embedded knife, the one John had never removed. Sentiment again. “The researchers called this a GetBox. It uses three different forms of energy to, supposedly, enable the dead to communicate directly with us.”

“No ‘supposedly’ about it,” I sniffed. “Extremely elementary in nature. Any ghost use do it.”

“I asked them to leave it with me for a few days to see if anything else comes through...”

Lestrade interrupted. “Anything else?”

John nodded. “Mmm hmm. Last thing we got was a voice that sounded like Sherlock saying ‘idiot’.”

Lestrade backed up to the sofa and sat down slowly. “That sounds...incredible and ridiculous, all at the same time.”

Reaching out to the box, John flipped the switch to ‘ON’ and waited. “I don’t always leave it on, especially if I’m going out. Haven’t heard anything since that day...”

“Hello, Graham,” I said, through the box.

Lestrade fell back against the couch and swore in astonishment. “Holy shit, it’s...” He leaned forward  
suddenly and yelled, “And it’s GREG, as you well know!”

I chuckled. Of course, I knew. I just loved to annoy him.

It took a lot of energy to use the device, since it utilized very low levels of energy. Higher levels are more malleable. My mind shot back to the conversation with Uncle Rudy. On the other side, all I’d had to do was think and Uncle Rudy knew exactly what I was saying. Telepathy doesn’t flow so smoothly in this dimension. I would have to choose my words carefully.

John held up a finger. “Let’s try something,” he said, before turning to the GetBox and asking, “Sherlock, there is a file Lestrade gave me this morning that has to do with a possible murder. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, but could you give me a clue as to what to look for?”

I walked over to the file on the kitchen table, where John had thrown it in his fit of pique. Some of the contents had spilled out, including a picture of the victim’s house, and a formal write-up on the victim’s symptoms and course of treatment before his death. My restless mind immediately turned to the problem and, within a few minutes time, I had churned out a theory that I couldn’t test but John could.

John and Lestrade, who had obviously just about given up hope of receiving any more messages from me, looked at each other wide-eyed as I said the single word “Trumpet” through the GetBox. 

“’Trumpet’?” Lestrade repeated. “What kind of a clue is that?”

Think, Greg.

John shrugged. “You know Sherlock. His methods aren’t always straightforward but his conclusions are usually spot on. I’ll have to research it on the internet...”

John’s laptop flashed on, courtesy of yours truly.

“Figures, he always liked to use my laptop instead of his own. No sense of boundaries,” John groused as he sat down at the desk. I flicked him in the back of the head with my fingers and he cursed. “Stop that!”

“Okay, this is getting a bit spooky now,” Lestrade mumbled as he approached the desk. John tapped out the search term “trumpet”, with predictable results.

“Nothing there,” Lestrade observed, disappointed. “Static, that’s all that was.”

“Narrow it down,” my voice boomed through the GetBox.

Lestrade was beginning to look a bit unwell, but John vigorously typed in the words “trumpet *” and “paralysis”, which had been one of the victim’s symptoms, into the search function,. The display changed to reveal a synopsis bearing a full-color image, the words “trumpet flower”, and a listing of “symptoms of trumpet flower poisoning”, which included “headache, nausea, diarrhea,...with possible complications including death, paralysis, shock...”

“Got it!” John crowed in triumph. I grinned, so proud that my John had obtained his answer so quickly. I may have called him an idiot at times, but, in reality, I knew better. “Greg, tell Molly to run a test for...” he clicked on the link and read the text presented, “‘solanine’ or ‘solanadine’, both of which are highly toxic.”

“Where the hell did he come up with ‘trumpet flowers’?” Lestrade mused aloud. “I mean, if we can’t link these flowers to the murderer, we have no case.”

I stood close behind John, observing. I certainly wasn’t going to solve it for them. This was meant as training for John, who may know my methods but was, by no means, their master. “Come on, John, you have the same information at your fingertips as I had. Check your file.”

John stared at the screen, chin in hand, for a moment before jolting upright and rushing over to the kitchen table where the case file lay strewn about. He pored over the papers before turning to the photos. One, in particular, caught his eye. 

“Lestrade! Get over here!” he called back, gesturing urgently. Lestrade hustled over (I followed at a more leisurely pace) and leaned over John’s shoulder, staring at the crime scene photo in John’s hand. “What is it?”

“Look, man, look!” John urged, excitedly. “Around the front of the house! What do you see?”

Peering closely, Lestrade muttered under his breath, “Flowers. So?”

John slapped the photo with his other hand. “Trumpet flowers, Greg! Look! All along the front porch!” 

Lestrade swore. “Right in front of us the whole time.” He turned his head toward John. “Wife is an avid flower enthusiast. Participates in all kind of plant shows. Too many, it turns out. Friends say that, recently, the husband had forbidden her from taking any more trips, since she was dipping a bit too far into the family funds for her ‘hobby’. Looks like it was him or the flowers, and you can figure out which one won!”

John grinned up at Lestrade. “We did it, Greg! We solved the case, using Sherlock’s methods!”

Lestrade nodded wordlessly. He was still looking a bit nervous. 

“What’s wrong, Lestrade?

“We solved it with the help of a ghost. How’s that going to go down?”

I rolled my eyes. “Just call it ‘spiritual guidance’.”

John waved a hand in dismissal. “Scotland Yard approached the case from a new angle and discovered relevant evidence.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. But, what about you? Don’t you want any credit?”

Turning away from the file, John sat on the edge of the table and said, in all earnestness, “I don’t really care for the publicity. You saw what happened to Sherlock when it became known that he was a brilliant detective. Enemies came out of the woodwork along with the fans and I’m not sure which one was worse, frankly. No, I was happy for Sherlock to get the recognition he deserved, but I’m not interested in it for myself. Just quietly pay me and we’ll continue our association on the down-low, okay?”

Lestrade gathered up all the papers on the table and thrust them back into the folder. “Sounds like a good plan to me. I’ll keep you informed 0n the progress of this case, but I think we’ve got it sewn up.” He nodded and said, “Good evening to you, John. Great work!”

I knocked book from a high shelf with a crash. Lestrade didn’t even bother to approach it. “And you, too, Sherlock!” he yelled back as he descended the stairs in a less-than-graceful rush, so keen was he on his escape.

John sat where he was, smiling down at the floor. I walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, emboldened by my ethereal state. “Good work, John.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John replied. 

I froze. John looked up toward the center of the room. “No, I can’t hear you,” he said, “but I could feel...something on my shoulder. A tingley, cool sensation. Just figured it was you.” He snuffled. “Wish you were here, in the flesh.”

Take a chance. This moment might not come again.

The GetBox buzzed as I said, “Love you”.

I saw John’s eyes fill with tears. “Love you, too. Wish I’d told you then, but now will do as well, I guess.”

I nodded my regret as John wept silently.

>>>***<<<

The following years were good ones. John became quite proficient in my techniques, with a little indirect help from his “guardian angel”, as he came to call me. He always tried to be low-key about his investigations but, soon, the word got out that the associate of Sherlock Holmes was, himself, a prodigious talent in the field of detection. Scotland Yard consulted him frequently, and his private investigative practice was pulling in customers in droves. He was able to sell off his medical practice and concentrate on helping those who were hopeless and afraid. He found the work quite rewarding.

I stuck around, too, of course, not wanting to venture into the afterlife without my blogger, best friend, and love interest. I discovered, interestingly enough, that love transcended the death of the physical body. While I used to lust after John in the material, I now realized how much more I appreciated John’s mental, emotional, and spiritual qualities without the physical getting in the way. John was, in my opinion, an admirable being deserving of everything good that could come his way. And I was determined to make that happen for him.

Several nights in a row, I whispered into Mrs. Hudson’s ear while she slept that, maybe, she should leave 221B to John when she died, since she had no near kin and considered John to be like a son to her. It wasn’t a big sell by me; she was actually very receptive. John was astonished when, one day, Mrs. Hudson presented him with a copy of her will, in which she left the building, including the business property, to him. She also left him a small fortune that she had squirreled away when she had been married to a drug czar. Still, I was please to have helped them both resolve a knotty problem on both their parts.

Mycroft visited occasionally, more often than he used to. My ire at my brother seemed to mellow over time, so I never did anything to irritate him. One day, while he was there, I “dropped” a box with a label that said “Mycroft” into my chair. Mycroft picked it up and looked askance at John, who swore on his life he’d never seen it before. When Mycroft opened it, a ceramic heart paperweight, with the word “Brother”, fell out into his hand. 

As John and I watched, Mycroft sat down in my chair and cried. I had never felt so touched. I had forgotten how much I had loved him.

>>>***<<<

Over time, I communicated less and less with John, but John just seemed to know when I was around and would talk to me as though he was sitting in the room with him, which, indeed, I was. He discussed cases with me and, upon the occasion of a real stumper, I would provide a supernaturally-obtained hint or two, which he never questioned, although he always did his research to verify how it fit into his theory. It was a very comfortable life.

Women did occasionally try to curry favor with the “new Great Detective”, but John was largely uninterested. He might go out to dinner with them, or a movie or show, but held back from going any further. It seemed, to my mind, that John might have felt that he’d offend me in some way, but I had found that, once the physical body was gone, jealousy wasn’t nearly the thing that it was before. I knew John loved me but I also knew that he had emotional and sexual needs requiring a live companion. Once, when John brought a woman to the flat, I manipulated the search feature of his laptop to show a book entitled “The Captain and the Lady; A Period Romance Novel.” 

John got the hint. He did, however, consummate their relationship in his old bed, not mine, where he usually slept. This made me laugh because John always was the more morally-upstanding of the two of us, and that didn’t change over time. John even admitted it to me one evening, when he had been drinking, that he felt as though he would be cheating on me, despite my apparent approval. I squirted him with the lime in his drink.

The end result was that John dated occasionally but never married. He said he could never find anyone like me. I called him an idiot. He smiled as though he had heard me.

>>>***<<<

As an old man, John finally found himself unable to tend to his own needs. He was well-situated enough financially that he could afford companion care for his bathing and his chores. A lively young woman with kind eyes would visit daily and assist him in getting ready for his day. She would then do the shopping while John wrote his memoires. He had already published several tomes recounting his crime-solving adventures with me in our glory days. He was now working on his more recent adventures (without mentioning his “ghostly partner”, of course) and a book on criminal behavioral analysis. He was content. 

I sat with him, watching him age with loving eyes. It was easy to be patient when time is of no matter. I found that I could travel around London without effort and could even, upon occasion, enter the glowing white door that constantly beckoned to me from the corner. I would talk with Uncle Rudy, my parents, and even Mycroft, once he had passed. All resentments and anger were put in the past. I finally understood why things had happened the way that they did between us, and we forgave each other for being less-than-perfect human beings. Mrs. Hudson was so pleased to see me again that she gave me a big hug, and Lestrade joined the party some time later. There was only one person missing...

>>>***<<<

In his late 80’s, John Watson was tired. He was no longer the spry young man of his youth and his mental condition had begun to deteriorate. He talked to me constantly, much to the chagrin of his caretakers and doctors. They tried to have him sent to a retirement home but he refused. Before his death, Mycroft had arranged for a brilliant young attorney, one quite beyond reproach, to manage John’s affairs. He made sure John would able to stay at 221B for as long as he wanted to. After that, Mycroft had arranged for 221B to become a museum honoring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, Consulting Detectives.

The time was approaching, I knew, when my dear friend would cross over and join me on my side of the veil. I never left John’s side, sometimes lying next to him in the bed we had never shared in life, just to provide some comfort to him. John knew I was there; as he approached his final moments on Earth, he became more attuned to the spiritual realm and could sometimes actually follow me around the room with his eyes or hear my quips. He seemed...comforted by my presence, and I would explain what John could expect when the time came. John had said that, as long as we could be together, nothing else mattered.

The moment finally came. John was alone in my old bed, sleeping. I watched as his breathing became shallower and shallower, listened as his heart beat slower and more weakly…

Until it surged again into life. His breathing quickened, his heart pounded fiercely in defiance.

“Dammit, John,” I muttered, half to myself, “you always were a stubborn git. Let go of this paltry life...”

I watched, frustrated, as this cycle repeated itself, over and over. 

The doorway shimmered into existence behind me. Mycroft leaned out of it. “Would you mind hurrying along, Sherlock? Your and John’s ‘Welcome Home” party is waiting!” His tone was as cool as ever. “You’ve kept us all waiting far too long...”

I half-turned and snarked, “Well, if you and Lestrade wouldn’t mind giving me a hand here. John is nothing if not persistent!”

Mycroft sighed. “Ah, well, if we must.” He looked behind him and gestured to someone before walking through the portal. He was followed closely by Lestrade, who grinned widely when he saw me. 

“Sherlock! Great to see you again! Finally coming home?” he said, jubilantly.

“As soon as we deal with John, Greg,” I returned.

“Bastard. I always knew you knew my name!”

I grinned mischievously at him. “Of course. Now, help me move John on out. Each one of you, grab a wrist and I’ll grab his feet.”

“Doesn’t want to go, eh?” Lestrade chuckled. “Not surprised.”

We all gathered around John’s deathbed. As I grabbed his ankles, I said, “Come along, John.”

A small, defiant voice in my head said, “Make me.”

We all chuckled. “That’s John,” Lestrade observed.

“All right, gentlemen. Pull!” I commanded as we all yanked John’s soul free of its withered casing. The body gave a final wheeze and relaxed as the life left it.

We all stumbled backward, in a manner quite undignified, as John tumbled out and staggered into our arms. He looked around in surprise, then in joy, at seeing his old comrades again. He hugged each and every one of us unreservedly. Yes, even Mycroft. “Where is everyone else?” he asked, breathlessly.

“Waiting for you, John,” Lestrade said merrily. “There’s a party brewing and you’re late!”

John turned to me and said, in a choked voice, “God, am I ever glad to see you again, Sherlock. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you. God, you’re beautiful!”

To my surprise, he grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me square on the lips. Not that I complained, mind you. He pulled back, surprised, as the reality hit him. “You’re real...I can touch you...how?”

I just grinned at him. “Welcome home, John. I’ll explain later...”

He kissed me again, with so much more fervor this time that words failed me. I just grabbed both his hands and put them to my lips in response. 

John smiled up at me and said. “I don’t ever want to be without you again.”

Lestrade slapped John on the back and said, “You don’t have to, John, that’s the best part! You two are soulmates, haven’t you figured that out yet? You will always find each other again, throughout eternity.”

John grinned up at me as a high, feminine voice caught our attention. A pretty, blonde woman had stuck her head out of the portal and called, “Yoo hoo! John, dear! Come on through, will you? Hurry up, we’re waiting! I’ve made biscuits!” Then she retreated.

John was gobsmacked. “Who...who the hell was that? She’s gorgeous! How...how does she know me?

We all looked at him in sympathy. “That,” I clarified, “was Mrs Hudson.”

John goggled.

“What, you didn’t think I was going to stay a dumpy old lady til my next incarnation, did you, John?” the voice came back.

He looked up at me in amazement. I gazed lovingly down at him and said, “There’s so much for you to experience, John. Are you ready?”

He looked into my eyes and said, “As long as we’re together...” as we turned and walked through the glowing doorway, with Mycroft and Lestrade in tow. It wavered and shrank into non-existence, leaving only silence and memories behind.


End file.
